Dripping Drabbles
by ChocolateDivineDiva
Summary: Random one-shots, hopefully a collection of them. Snippets of character/team dynamics. Rating and genre subject to change. Ch1: Hotch with Reid; Ch2: Reid and Diana; Ch3: AU- Reid vs unsub!Hotch and Foyet; Ch4: Reid/purple. Please review!
1. One Early Morning

_Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds. Never have, never will. But I'd like to sneak into the sandbox and play around for a while._

_AN: First fanfic I've completed. Reviews appreciated- please be kind!_

_This one is not set in any particular season- use your imagination! May come across as sometime in the earlier seasons of the show. Cross-posted on deviantART._

_Not beta'd._

_No pairings planned. Again, use your imagination if you really want to see something there. Slash not intended, though if you squint really hard... just sayin'._

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><p>Aaron Hotchner had arrived at the BAU offices early that morning to get a head start on the paperwork involved with the cases he had consulted for. He sat his briefcase down in order to unlock his office door, then picked it back up and toed the door open. Preoccupied with the details of yet another case he would send his recommendations for, he carefully moved the hand without the briefcase, but was holding a paper cup of coffee, to the light switch, and flicked it on with his thumb. He then proceeded to his desk. At least, that was the direction he was headed in. A few steps, then his right foot had caught on something, and he tripped. Hotchner dropped his briefcase on the couch to free up his hand to break his fall. His coffee had fallen to the ground, and then was partially crushed by his hip.<p>

The combination of having a briefcase land on his chest, a reverberating thud on the floor, and a growled "What the hell?" was enough to startle Spencer Reid from his position on the couch. He jolted upright, blinking the sleep away and panicked when he saw Hotchner.

Before Reid could say or do anything, Hotch had rolled over and sat up. He noticed first that his foot was caught in the strap of Reid's leather messenger bag, and then saw a mortified-looking Reid, who had shifted on the couch so that he was sitting cross-legged in the centre.

"Oh! Uh, Hotch, are you alright?" Reid blurted out. He grabbed his bag and started rummaging through it quickly. Pulling out a pack of tissues, he tugged out one and thrust it and the package into the unit chief's hand. Hotch had his other hand up to his nose, pinching it while using part of the palm to catch the blood that was dripping from it. Reid winced. "I-I'm sorry, Hotch. I-I-I, uh, here, let me help," he stammered, practically jumping up off the couch before he bent down to retrieve the crushed coffee cup and assisted Hotch up and onto the couch.

While dabbing at the blood and still pinching the bridge of his nose, Hotch spoke up. "Reid? Why are you here?"

Reid's gaze shifted around, and simply stated, "I work here." Avoiding the other's gaze, he tossed the paper cup into the wastepaper basket.

"That's not what I meant. Don't be obtuse. I want to know why you were sleeping on my couch." Hotchner's sinus cavities were aching slightly, due to the pressure from hitting his nose when he had fallen, and the subsequent nosebleed. He knew he should tilt his head downward, but he needed to look at his subordinate and for the eye contact that would happen eventually. It might be comforting for him to see that there was no anger in his eyes, just as there was no animosity in his voice.

While he answered, Reid's gaze flickered to Hotch's and then flitted away to the bookcase and its contents. "Well, I stayed behind last night to plow through the files on my desk. There were a few details on one case that were troubling me, and I wasn't tired. I had lost track of time, and realised that it didn't make sense to take the Metro home and commute back in a few hours. So, I, um…" he gestured at the couch. "I, uh, made use of your couch." He shrugged sheepishly, and added, "I had set the alarm on my cell phone to get me up at seven, so I would be out in the bullpen before anyone arrived."

Reid fidgeted from his spot in front of Hotch, fiddling with his watch and the cuff of his shirtsleeve in the silence that followed his excuse. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again while Hotch contemplated what he said. When the unit chief spoke up again, the anxiety spiked.

"You slept on the couch. In my office. I lock up when I leave at the end of every day." He noticed how uncomfortable Reid looked, and quickly added, "I'm glad you did get some sleep, Reid. Sleeping here is better than trying to drive exhausted, or worrying about how to commute home by other means."

Reid met his eyes, surprised that the lecture he feared wasn't coming. He gave a small smile, touched by the concern the older agent had. Then he paled slightly and wished the floor would open up underneath him at the next words Hotch spoke.

"I'd still like to know how you got into my office when I'm not here."

He gulped, and hoped the repercussions of his actions weren't too severe. After all, Hotch did just say he was glad that Reid had picked the safer option. That it was okay that he spent the rest of the night in the BAU. He wet his dry lips, and then launched into the explanation.

"Well, um, atmospheric pressures, temperature and humidity affect the air and structures—more notably in the lumber used in building constructs. Everything, to some degree, expands and contracts." When Hotch nodded briefly, he continued on. "When there's interacting parts, the joints and connections shift as the surfaces they're a part of expand or contract with the changes to the air and moisture. The door to your office, with the lockset mechanism, and the strike plate on the doorframe were initially aligned so that the door would remain closed and locked."

Hotchner was about to ask him to get to the point when Reid held up a finger, forestalling him. "With the shifts, the latch bolt doesn't completely catch into the latch-hole in the frame—unless you were to close the door and then give it a firm tug 'til the clicking sound of the latch bolt fully extending itself past the striker plate and into the hole."

When he realised Reid had finished speaking, Hotch stood up, looked from Reid to the door then back again. "So, you're saying that while I locked up, I hadn't checked to make sure it was secure."

Reid nodded enthusiastically, feeling relieved that it was all out in the open. It sounded preposterous, but it was within the realm of possibility—after all, it _did_ happen.

Hotch tossed the used tissues into the trash can and took his briefcase to the desk. "Alright, Reid. I did ask, though that was a bit more about doors than I'd wanted to know. Go get freshened up." As Reid turned to leave the office, Hotch spoke up again. "If you happen to need my couch again, try to tuck your bag somewhere out of the way so that an incident like this won't happen again."

Reid looked at Hotch again. While the unit chief's face remained as stoic as ever, his eyes glittered with warmth and humour. He dipped his gaze to Hotchner's feet and flashed a grin before leaving. As Reid went to the break room to load up on his coffee, Hotch pulled out his go bag and went to the bathroom to change out of his coffee-drenched clothes. The rest of the day could hold off a little while longer.


	2. Her Cardigan

Disclaimer: see top of chapter one

AN: Not originally the second piece. That one has been shelved indefinitely. Also apologies for anyone following "If These Walls Could Talk", since this bit beat me over the head to get written. I'll do my best to finish that up. Please read and review!

Timeline: sometime in season three  
>Spoilers for: The Fisher King parts I and II, Revelations<br>Wardrobe references: The Fisher King part I, Fear and Loathing (ignoring any other appearances in season one)

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><p>The more things change, the more they tend to stay the same. Spencer Reid knew there was a grain of truth to that. No matter how many years it's been, the winters in Virginia were harsh and bitterly cold. He still wore sweater vests and cardigans year round, sometimes even a cardigan in addition to a sweater vest.<p>

And yet, on that day, it wasn't enough. He rifled through his closet for another cardigan to put on, one that would be big enough to wear on top of all the other layers of clothing. There was one that stood out to him, particularly due to the memories associated with the garment. His slender fingers caressed the soft material as he went to carefully lift it from the hanger.

Reid held it up in front of him, holding it almost reverently, and thought back to the last time he had donned the cardigan. He hadn't been doing well then, battling against the demons that threatened to overwhelm him. It was the case in Westchester County, shortly after the horrors he had experienced at the hands of Tobias Hankel. Fortunately, there were other, positive memories associated with it.

Putting it on, he reflected on the time he had his mother taken into protective custody. He had feared for her safety as soon as he had realized the UnSub had known her, feared that he would go after her. He tugged the collar up, snuggling into the cardigan. He remembered the relief he felt when the agents saw her safely to the BAU offices, and the guilt over aggravating her paranoia by having the local field office send agents to escort her. There was also pride—pride at hearing Garcia's words, and that Diana had helped save Rebecca Bryant's life. Though he feared that one day he'd develop schizophrenia, he was still proud to be her son.

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><p>After the case, he had flown with his mother, taking her back to Bennington Sanitarium. And since the team still had their vacation time left, he spent the rest of it with her. They took turns reading to each other, including the volume of Margery Kempe he had initially brought with him at the start of his leave.<p>

While she had several good days during that time, there had also been some bad ones. On those days, he wished for nothing but the ability to make everything better, to have his mom well again. When Diana was well enough to receive visitors again, he felt compelled to be the perfect son; holding to the irrational hope that his love and support would keep her grounded. It had included letting her fuss over him—that he needed to take care of himself better. Things that every mother tells their children, such as his eating habits, though he managed to evade promising to cut back on his coffee intake.

Near the end of his vacation, Reid and his mom had taken a walk on the sanitarium grounds after a few rounds of Scrabble. Being the gentleman she had raised him to be, he had offered his arm. While they had strolled along a tree-lined path, they talked about his 'adventures' and the syllabus she was reworking for the next set of lectures.

On the way back inside, Diana had halted in her steps, causing her son to turn and look at her quizzically. Before he was able to say anything, she gave him a stern look, prompting him to snap his mouth shut, teeth clicking together.

"Spencer, I'm really, really proud of you. Don't ever forget that. It scares me, the work that you do. But I know how important it is to you. _You_ make a difference to so many people. But you need to take better care of yourself." He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn't let him speak up. "No, I'm your mother. I _know_, Spencer. Come with me."

They had gone back to her room, and once there, she had directed Reid to sit down. As she rummaged through her dresser and closet, she told him bluntly, "You're too thin." She muttered something, but he didn't ask her to repeat it. Diana turned and studied him for a second. "You need to take better care of yourself. You're precious, special." Resuming her search, she added, "The weather in Virginia isn't like what we get here. You can't be too prepared for anything."

Having found what she was looking for, she walked over to him, and draped a taupe-coloured cardigan across his shoulders. At his furrowed brow, Diana took a finger and, placing it under his chin, tipped his head back so that he would meet her gaze. "You shouldn't be surprised, Spencer. A mother knows things." She gave him a knowing look, and he smiled, grateful for moments like that when his mom was being motherly.

"Thanks mom. I love you."

"I love you too, baby. There's still time before dinner. Why don't we read some Chaucer until then?" At his nod, she plucked a few tomes from a shelf. Together, they settled themselves on the couch and took turns reading to each other.

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><p>Reid rubbed his arms, trying to warm himself faster. He went over to his desk and set out to write a letter to his mom.<p>

_Dear Mom,_

_You were right. I'm thankful for your insight and wisdom. The superintendant hired a repairman to fix the furnace, but with the seasonal demand rising, we're waiting for the work order to be processed and they can send someone over. Don't worry—Morgan brought over a space heater .It'll only be for a couple of days. _

_I'll give you a call on our usual day, if work doesn't get in the way. I miss hearing your voice. And I have a new joke to tell you. Emily shared it with me. And the other girls told me to say hi to you for them. I'm still not entirely sure why, but I thought it was nice of them._

_I mentioned David Rossi before, and that he came out of retirement. But why he did it? Well, it's a bit of a long story… _


	3. Caught In Evil's Web

_Disclaimer: see top of chapter one_

_AN: Written for aquazephyrus._

_This is based on a RP of an AU where Foyet wasn't killed by Hotch in '100'. And somehow along the way, the intensity of the evil within Hotch was so strong, it manifested itself in human form- a dark clone of the Aaron Hotchner we know and love._

_Not beta'd._

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><p>"Well, look at what we got here," came a taunting voice from somewhere to Reid's left and behind him.<p>

Another, familiar voice, using a tone that he had never heard the man use came from opposite the first man. "Caught the twerp snooping around. He's too nosy for his own good," the second man sneered, toeing Reid in his side. "Wake up, you fuckwad. I know you're faking. Don't make me kick you. Actually, _do_—I'll enjoy it immensely."

Reid cracked open his eyes, and inhaled sharply. His ears weren't deceiving him after all. But the man's appearance was drastically different than what was the norm. Even if the demeanour wasn't so drastically different, the man's gauntness, his beard, and the scar that ran from his left temple to the right corner of his mouth, bisecting his eyebrow and nose with its path, spoke of a past that was quite different than the one Reid was aware of.

Still, he wasn't sure if it was all an elaborate prank, or even a sick and twisted joke. When he found his voice again, he winced as it cracked on the one word. "Hotch?"

The man who looked like Aaron Hotchner, but was _not_ his Aaron Hotchner, sneered. He shot back a snarky reply, "Last time I checked."

The owner of the other voice spoke up again, dripping with disdain. "Congratulations, your eyesight still works."

Reid struggled against the ropes that had him restrained in order to roll over and view the other man. When he finally succeeded, he gasped then spluttered out, "You! It can't be! You're supposed to be dead!"

"Does it look like I'm dead? I'm upset that you think such terrible thoughts about me."

"Ignore him, George. Or better yet, let's make him pay for his insolent mouth," the Hotchner with the nasty scar said sardonically, cracking the knuckles of his hands with glee. "There's plenty of ways to have fun with this one."

Licking his lips, Foyet gave Reid's prone form a cursory glance, and then threw him a wink. "Don't worry, pal. It won't hurt much—for us. Can't say the same for you, though."

His partner then gave a hearty guffaw, which sent chills down Reid's spine.


	4. Sheer Purpley Awesomeness

_Disclaimer: see top of chapter one_

_AN: aquazephyrus provided the prompt "Reid, purple". May have been a part of the itty-bitty fic tumblr prompt series. Chapter title taken from my tumblr tag for all things Reid/purple ship._

__Timeline: nothing specific, possibly later seasons due to changes in wardrobe colour palette.___  
><em>

_Not beta'd._

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><p>Spencer Reid was not a vain man by any stretch of the imagination. His fashion sense was based on necessity and professionalism rather than any particular style. It also hadn't been a priority while growing up, as he had to help provide for his mom and himself.<p>

So when he had gotten numerous compliments over a simple scarf, he didn't think much of it. He merely said his thanks, and added, "It was a Secret Santa gift during my first year at the BAU."

After the horrors of the job had started taking its toll on the young man, he had developed the shadows under his eyes. And no matter how long he had been living in the DC area, he still wasn't used to the colder climate than his native Nevada desert. He had taken to wearing the purple scarf almost daily between the autumnal and vernal equinoxes.

With all his talents of distraction and misdirection, he quickly learned that wearing the scarf detracted from the tired look his eyes had. Using that knowledge, he gradually added articles of clothing in various shades of purple to his wardrobe.


End file.
